


to cut a diamond

by Stratisphyre



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Background Character Death, Background Relationships, Diamond heists and robberies, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratisphyre/pseuds/Stratisphyre
Summary: Someone had beaten them here.It meant someone out there was as brilliant as him.Fantastic!Professional jewel thieves James and Rose make an accidental habit of beating one another to their respective scores. When they find themselves working together, more than diamonds end up being on the line.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	to cut a diamond

**Author's Note:**

> I don't believe any content warnings are required, but please let me know if I missed anything. 
> 
> The title comes from William Congreve: “Wit must be foiled by wit: cut a diamond with a diamond.”

Without a doubt, the most harrowing (exciting!) part of any job was when James detached himself from his harness and balanced completely on his own. Relying on the strength in his limbs (toes - marvellous!) and his (excellent) sense of balance. 

This time, twenty stories off the ground on a ledge that a squirrel would find nerve-wrackingly narrow was no different.

He loved it.

Grinning wildly, he inched along the ledge, Jack nattering in his ear about security rotations as though James hadn’t already memorized the schedule. Wind whipped around his head, pulling at his black knit cap and almost making the building seem to sway. Not that it was actually swaying. This wasn’t the top floor of the Burj Khalifa, just a twenty-five-storey insurance building in London. A simple sensory prediction error as his body decided that because it was moving, the building should’ve been moving as well. 

It didn’t stop his (still marvellous) toes from clenching until he reached their target. The window of one Oliver Pollard, insurance adjuster, who'd recently made the mistake of “reclaiming” (a fancy term that insurance agents tended to use in place of “stealing back”) a piece of jewelry from a friend of theirs and calling himself righteous. Had he been planning to do anything with it besides selling it off to a particularly nasty would-be dictator James would've happily let him keep it. 

As such.

He reached Pollard’s window and paused, blinking.

"Jack," he said slowly.

"Yeah?"

"The window is open."

A short pause ensued before, "The window is... open?"

"The window is open."

" _Why_ is the window open?"

"How should I know? I just got here." At twenty storeys, the window should've been permanently sealed, but the insurance company had recently acquired the aging old building and still had to do some retrofitting. It was part of the allure when they'd taken the job. An easy in and out. He hadn’t even bothered bringing his laser cutter. 

"All right," Jack said slowly. James could practically hear the sound of his brain going into overdrive. "Is there anyone inside?"

Grabbing one of the jutting brown bricks above him, James leaned over and peered into the office. Empty, dark, not a thing out of place save a few papers rustled off the table by the night breeze. James nudged the window open wider with his shoulder to give him the space to slip inside. If someone had gotten in before him, they had narrower shoulders than he did. 

Or maybe Pollard had needed some fresh air. 

The office smelled like tobacco, anti-dandruff shampoo and the small bottle of cheap gin Pollard kept secreted away in his desk drawer. A massive desk took up one side of the room, facing his target: a Cyberman 775 electronic wall safe.

This was going to be easier than he’d expected.

James slipped his digital reader from his side bag and hooked it up to the pin pad.

"A four digit combination. Really?" he muttered as it blinked back at him. "This thing is practically begging to be robbed." 

"You’ve got plenty of time. The guards are just starting their tour of the second floor," Jack told him. 

James waited as his reader ran through the possible series of digits. He'd been expecting a ten-number pin at least. Four was practically insulting. He probably could’ve left his reader at home and handcracked it, for all a four-digit pin was going to keep him out. It was probably something stupid, too. If he found out it was 1-2-3-4, he was going to nick everything else in the safe as well. 

It beeped in an overly friendly way only a minute later. 4-3-2-1. Honestly. No imagination, this insurance lot. With a long-suffering roll of the eyes, James detached his reader, carefully tucking it away, and pulled the safe open.

It was sizable for a wall safe. Big enough to comfortably accommodate several reams of paperwork, an expensive-looking camera, and about six jewelry boxes.

Six.

There should have been seven.

He tore open the boxes one by one. Two diamond cocktail rings, a truly ugly crystal pug, a small tiara (fake - he could already tell, and if the assessors had declared it genuine then one of them was probably planning to nick it and blame it on an honest thief such as himself), one emerald bracelet, a ruby ring and _no sodding necklace_.

Someone had beaten them here.

Almost staggered by the thought, James brought a hand to his chin and stared at what had been left behind. Whoever it was could only have broken in during the short time window they’d stepped away to follow Pollard home and grab a quick bite before the job. They’d had the building under scrutiny the rest of the time. They’d known about the necklace, and left everything else behind. And the necklace wasn’t even the most valuable thing in there; easily a third of the worth of even one of the rings. It was only a couple carats in sapphires. The only reason Sarah-Jane wanted it was for sentimental reasons. 

They’d come in. Targeted the necklace. And gotten out. All before he did.

He hadn’t seen any signs of rappelling gear on the top floor, either, and he tended to know what to look for. It left limited possibilities, and he checked them off one-by-one in his mind. If the window was the point of entry, they’d either scaled the side of the building—he’d considered it but discarded the thought when he realized how exposed it would leave him to anyone in the neighbouring buildings—or they’d used the window as an exit and come in through the door. 

James slipped across the room to check the lock, a slow smile stretching across his face when he saw the telltale signs of pickwork. The smallest scratch left behind. Unnoticeable save for the untrained eye. And his eyes were terribly well training. 

They must’ve gone out the window, then. No signs of gear inside, no scratches on the sill to indicate any equipment use. Either a freescale climb to the top floor, or an impossible jump. 

Bloody good show. 

"James? The hell is going on?"

"Oh, just a professional miscommunication," he said, grinning. He tucked the jewelry boxes back into their rightful spots and shut the safe. It hadn’t been 1-2-3-4, after all. "Better let Sarah-Jane know she's not getting her mum’s necklace back."

"Why?!"

 _That_ he answered with glee. "Because someone out there is as brilliant as me."

* * *

The redhead who shuffled into Gilbert’s office was painfully average to look at, if he was being generous. The type of bird who needed something sparkly if she wanted to pull. Unremarkable, and that was being generous, dressed up in frumpy, if expensive clothing; probably chosen off the rack because the price tag declared it valuable, without a thought to how it fit. It rather perfectly matched the wide-brimmed glasses obscuring most of her face. He smiled, trying his best to look sincere. If he wanted the commission, he needed to start licking arse immediately.

"Ms. Corin, what a pleasure to meet you."

She mutely stuck out her hand. Her flaccid grip sat limply in his own, and the mechanical levering of his arm felt more a social obligation than any sort of greeting. She squeezed his hand too hard as well, and didn't bother removing her silk gloves until afterwards.

"Where is it?" she asked.

"Ah, straight to business. A woman after my own heart." He smiled. The expression went unreturned. He awkwardly stumbled into the shpeal he'd delivered twice that day already. "As you know, Wickham’s has been in the fine jewel business for over fifty years. Founded by my great-grandfather, we are the premier dealers of fine jewelry in Britain."

"Yes, I did my research," she admitted.

"Lovely. A woman of intellect." He turned to his desk. "You're my third appointment today to view the Star of the Marchioness. When we brought it over from our partners in America, we had no idea it would be so very popular." He unlocked the top drawer of his desk, typed in his pin, and pressed his palm against the scanner inside. The second drawer clicked open, and he pulled out the fine velvet box. "I understand you recently won a small fortune?" Earlier that day, he'd shown the Marchioness off to a Duke who was considering it's purchase for his wife. Shame about the gentleman's unfortunate stomach issues... it had put an unwelcome damper on the moment. Come to think of it, the gentleman never had returned from the loo. Not before Gilbert’s next appointment, at any rate. He hoped the Duke was well enough to return and complete the purchase. 

Allowing a lottery winner to even look upon it felt as though he'd slid into muck.

"Yes." She finally allowed a small smile to grace her otherwise puckered lips. 

"Well, you might consider allowing this to be both an exquisite addition to your own collection of jewelry, as well as acting as an investment." He chuckled. "Diamonds are forever."

She blinked behind her enormous frames when he opened the box. "Not very big, is it?"

Oliver's eyes widened. "Madam, this is the fifth largest champagne diamond in the world. I assure you it is _quite_ sizable."

"The way everyone’s been going on about it, I thought it'd be the size of my fist. It's barely bigger than my thumbnail."

"You have to understand, Ms. Corin, that when it comes to diamonds, the size is often irrelevant to the value." And this diamond was exquisite.

She sighed. "And it’s all brown, too. Like it’s been dropped in bogwater. I'd rather have something more substantial to wear on m'finger." She peered about the room. "Got anything else worth peeking at?"

With a flabbergasted shake of his head, he replaced the Marchioness in his secured drawer and locked it back up. Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.

He shook her overly clammy hand again once more twenty minutes later, when she walked out empty-handed. Despite the 8% commission he'd lost out on, he wasn't disappointed to see her go. Hopefully his next meeting would be more... palatable.

When Donna had cased out the office earlier, she'd left out how ugly the art on the walls was. Wickham’s might be in the business of jewelry, but their taste in art left something to be desired. She hadn’t seen such an obvious lack of cohesion in a collection since she’d dropped in on that idiot _fuerdai_ in Beijing. What a tosser. 

"All right, Blondie, the pinpad on the drawer is coded to either 1-8-9-6 or 1-7-9-6, then use the glove we made out of his palm impression."

"'M on it," Rose said. She jimmied open the desk drawer, typed in the passcode (right on the first try) and pulled on the glove. She braced herself; if it didn't work, she'd have about fifteen seconds to dive back out the window before security was up her arse. 

She took a steadying breath and placed the glove against the reader.

It took a heartwrenching three seconds, but finally beeped and opened.

Rose grabbed the box and flung herself back across the room with a laugh. The Star of the Marchioness, all theirs. Mum was going to be so chuffed. She’d been eyeing it up since they’d cut it down and put it in the diamond twelve years back, but hadn’t thought to go for it herself. 

Gilbert’s office was on the tenth floor, at the back of the building. Close enough to the neighbouring office that Rose was able to leap from the window and catch onto the neighbouring ledge with ease. From there it was a quick scurry down to where Donna was waiting in the alley below, idling behind the wheel of her Lexus.

"Beautifully done," Donna declared as she pulled out to the street. She'd given up her ‘Ms. Corin’ disguise shortly after her meeting, ditching the frumpy old maid get up for more comfortable togs.

"Let's see it, then," Donna said. "I was practically salivating in my meeting with him, it was so lovely."

Rose opened the box. And.

"What."

Donna's foot slammed on the brake.

"It's empty," Rose said, uselessly.

"Then where the hell is our diamond?" Donna demanded. Shrieked. Shriekmanded.

They sat in confounded silence a moment. Rose hadn’t seen signs of anyone else in the office. Not a hair out of place. Not a moment where the hair had raised at the back of her neck because something wasn’t sitting well. Whoever had nabbed it was a professional. No smash and grab. Like she liked to think of herself, really. But, apparently, quicker. 

"Chips?" Rose offered at length. Chips were always a good idea. Especially when one was going to be reeling from the loss of the world’s fifth largest champagne diamond. Good job she wasn’t one to spend money before she’d earned it. 

"Lord yes," Donna groaned.

Rose rolled down the window and tossed the box out as Donna peeled down a side street towards their favourite chippy.

* * *

By the time James reached the top of the building, he already had the uneasy itch between his shoulder blades that suggested the job was about to go sour. He enjoyed the theatrics of dropping down through a skylight as much as the next villain, but something wasn't sitting right, and it wasn't his harness.

He spotted the problem as soon as he heaved himself over the edge of the roof.

"You're never going to believe this," he told Jack. He readjusted his earpiece, nudging the wire with his shoulder. 

The iron beams holding the glass in place were scratched to hell, in exactly the place he'd planned to set up his gear. And while he was thin enough to squeeze through the hole that had been cut in the glass, he suspected there wasn't much point. He approached the skylight and peered down into the room below. Sure enough, where there should have been a bejeweled tiger statue, there was nothing save an empty display case with a cheekily bare cushion within.

"Again?!" Jack demanded. "Who is this guy?"

"I don't know," James said with a smile. "But whoever it is, they're fantastic."

"Stop that. Stop admiring the competition."

"I'll stop admiring them when they stop being admirable," James promised. 

“I hope your definition of admirable includes altering security, because otherwise you’re going to feel like an asshole.” 

As he said the words, the rooftop door banged open, a handful of security guards spilling out, all of them shouting for him to freeze. 

He threw himself back off the roof with a hoot of delight.

* * *

"AGAIN??!?!" Donna screamed. Rose winced and turned down the volume on her earpiece. Donna was going to deafen someone someday. And Rose really would prefer if that someone wasn’t her. 

"We _are_ running half an hour behind schedule," Rose reminded her, sliding out of the bank vault. The coast was clear, the security cameras were set to play looped video, and everyone she'd crossed paths with had been happier to speak to her chest, completely ignoring the rest of her. Funny how some padding and a push-up brassiere was more effective camouflage than anything the military could think up. Maybe she was in the wrong line of business. She’d’ve made a very good spy, she thought. 

She put enough swing in her hips on the way out that no one bothered to clock any additional details about her, too. Her bum really did look fantastic in leather.

"Who the hell does this bloke think he is?" Donna demanded. "The earrings only arrived at the bank yesterday."

"If they arrived at all," Rose commented mildly. Back on the street, she slid off her blazer and effortlessly turned it inside-out, trading the smart-looking black cut for the drabby pink lining beneath. In the next breath, she removed her fake specs—not that she'd needed them—and tucked them into her handbag. "What if it was snatched en route?"

"We thought of that," Donna reminded her. "Unless they managed to stick to the side of a speeding train and somehow get off without breaking every bone in their body, they couldn't have done."

Rose grinned. Somehow, she bet they could've.

* * *

Lady Amerihemet's ballroom was getting hot with the number of people jammed into every corner. He'd chosen to linger near the grand piano, his fingers itching to attack the splendid ivory keys and liven things up. It was a beautiful evening, and though he didn't typically care for tuxedos, he thought he pulled this one off rather well.

("Stunning," Jack had declared with a leer earlier that evening, when James had emerged from his room fully dressed. 

"Stop it," James muttered, trying and failing not to be secretly pleased by the compliment. Years of feeling invisible followed by Jack's aggressive affection was rather like being tossed about in an out-of-control theme park ride, with all the slightly nauseating inertia that came with it.)

Odd how his skin crawled at the sensation of overdressed and naked all at once. Without his earpiece and Jack's accompanying murmurs, he felt rather isolated, despite the enormity of the crowd.

The band—sans piano, which was a crime with such a beautiful instrument available—shifted from a reasonable attempt at Debussy to a decent cover of Frankie Valli’s ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.’

And then, materializing from the hall leading to the loo, appeared a vision in pink and yellow.

James eyes, as well as those of half the room had they any sense, fixed on her immediately. Like many of the other women in attendance, she had forgone the typical ballgown for something more streamlined; a pink satin dress hugged every curve, the brilliant cowl neckline only overshadowed by the split creeping up to her mid-thigh. Despite the quality of the dress, and the gorgeous citrine drop pendant dangling tantalizingly into her decolletage, she didn't strike him as being from money. Perhaps because she eyed the room as though it was a spectacle, instead of a daily chore. 

She had gorgeous eyes. He noticed when she looked up and their gazes caught across the room. 

The band parted for a brief recess, and someone finally slid into the piano bench. James stepped away as the first notes of a rather lovely attempt at a syrupy-slow number, smashing for a waltz. He tilted his head towards the dance floor, earning himself a smile and the barest incline of her chin. 

Crossing the room took a year as he weaved his way through the crowd, trying not to be outright rude in passing. Rudeness would be noticed, and potentially remarked upon. While he didn’t usually give a toss, he was there to swipe a truly spectacular collection of diamonds, and couldn’t afford to be at anyway remarkable.

Unlike her. She was every inch remarkable. He could tell from the way she moved as she tried to reach him before the song ended. She dodged around an unfortunately rotund example of the peerage, finally within reach. 

He offered his hand, but even as her fingers brushed across his palm, a cry went up from the other side of the room. 

"Lady Amerihemet's diamonds! They're gone!"

A general outcry filled the room, drawing his attention. Damn. He'd thought it'd be rather longer before they caught him out. He'd already chucked the collection out the window and into Jack's waiting hands, and there wasn't much chance of being caught (unless there was someone pretty enough on the grounds to distract Jack before he managed a getaway, which wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility, as proven by their time in Egypt), but he felt the night was probably ruined.

In his moment of distraction, the woman disappeared, leaving him to wonder if he wouldn't find a glass shoe on the steps outside. 

Assuming the police ever let any of them leave, he thought grumpily. 

Twenty-one hours later, Cyclops looked up at them through his loupe, a deep-sea frown marring his already gruesome face. "You two having a laugh?"

Jack frowned. "What?"

"Thems fake, ain't they?" He spit on the floor next to his chair and tossed the largest of the rings back their way. "Good fake. Must've paid top dollar. Not enough to trick me, though. Now where's the real stuff?"

James and Jack traded bewildered looks.

“Fake?” James finally choked out.

“As paste,” Cyclops confirmed. “What, you didn’t know?”

“No.” The word gasped out of Jack’s mouth, half curse and half groan. Cyclops' lips twitched; the closest he’d ever come to expressing an emotion rather than bland disinterest. His face quickly shifted back to condescending impassivity, and he waited as they collected the very costly collection of pretty glue.

James hung his head. “At least we went to someone who didn’t have us shivved for trying to pass off a fake.”

"I'm a good'un," Cyclops confirmed, shoving his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

Jack’s lips pursed in irritation. “Was there anyone there who stood out? Another thief?”

James’ thoughts flittered to his would-be waltz partner. “Not a one, no,” he lied. It was second nature, lying to Jack about attractive people; for his own good, really. Jack was easily distracted.

“Well, three months of prep work down the shitter, then.” Jack sighed. “Buy you a drink?”

“Absolutely.”

Cyclops coughed awkwardly as Jack shrugged on his coat.

“Jack, I did want to say I was sorry to hear of Gwen, seeing as you two… you know.” Cyclops made a vague hand gesture that somehow managed to be both vague and obscene at the same time. 

Jack stilled. “What about Gwen?”

“Her being killed on the job and all.”

James watched the colour drain away from Jack’s face, and while the other man didn’t quite waver on his feet, it was only because he locked his knees, jaw grit in determination.

“What?” 

“And I heard her husband got nicked by the filth. Terrible business. I don’t like you, Harkness, but I’m glad you were well clear of it.”

As Jack tried to remain standing, James dredged up all he knew about Gwen. It was all secondhand from Jack, of course. Their respective specialties were vastly different. She worked the long con, and had been running game in Cardiff for years—had once managed to successfully pose as a DI for a half-year without anyone the wiser—and was outstandingly precise. How anyone had managed to get the best of her, he couldn’t imagine.

So he asked.

Cyclops blinked at him behind his thick-lensed spectacles. “Crossed paths with Saxon, didn’t she? Both of them trying to run game on the same bloke.” He frowned. “I figured you knew.” 

James wasn’t in the habit of cursing. For a moment, he wished that wasn’t true. Harold Saxon. He could’ve happily spent the rest of his life without hearing the name ever again.

Jack’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly, his hands trembling on the lapels of his great coat. James grabbed his arm, tugging him towards the door. “Come on, Jack.”

“No,” Jack choked out the word.

“Yes.”

James nodded to Cyclops and drew Jack back outside to their waiting car. The tremors had turned to out-and-out shaking by the time James maneuvered Jack into the passenger seat, and aimed them for the closest of the flats James maintained, over in Dalston. It wasn’t his favourite hidey-hole, but he liked the exposed brick and pipes, and the odd slanting architecture of the ceiling. More importantly, he liked the collection of decent whisky he kept secreted away there, because he had a feeling they were going to need it. Jack might’ve preferred scotch, but James never stocked it. Couldn’t. Too many wretched associations. 

Jack was silent on the way over. Jack was rarely silent. Jack was a bundle of flirtatious energy and easy smiles. His silence was more worrying than the shaking of his hands.

When they reached James’ flat, he bullied Jack up the stairs and sat him down on one of his kitchen barstools before retrieving one of the dusty bottles from the glass cabinet next to the sink.

Jack ignored the glass James sat on the bar in front of him, and instead opened the bottle and tossed his head back to chug down the contents.

“Jack…”

Jack held up a finger and James pressed his lips together to catch whatever else was about to trip from his mouth.

It took him a long time—half the bottle, really—to finally force out the words caught behind his teeth.

“I fell in love with Gwen the first day we met,” he stammered out, voice overly thick with too many emotions to put name to. “She was working short cons in Cardiff, and I caught her and this scummy asshole running the badger on tourists. All I could think was, ‘this one, she’s smart. She deserves so much better.’ Within a year, you know, she’d gotten so good at the long con that I realized I was more of a liability than a partner. Long cons aren’t my style. I told her, _I_ told _her_ , that she didn’t need me anymore. And now she’s dead. And Rhys… Rhys wasn’t even in the game. They met at a fucking Tesco. She didn’t tell him what she did for almost three years, until one of our friends let it slip right before their wedding. He… and Saxon…” Jack took another swallow of scotch, and James ruthlessly told himself off for momentarily regretting opening one of the nicer bottles. “He won’t do well in prison. He’s not like us. He’s… soft.”

James shook his head. “This isn’t your fault, Jack.”

“No,” Jack said, throwing back more whisky. His gaze darkened. “It’s Saxon’s.” 

James shivered. His own history with Harold Saxon was… complicated. Saxon wasn’t their sort of villain; he didn’t care who he hurt, or if someone died, as long as he got what he wanted. He worked with the sort of ruthless criminals who traded in drugs and skin, and never batted an eye sinking his arms elbow-deep into the worst of humanity. James had his own scars leftover from the day he’d decided to walk away. He couldn’t imagine being the cause of Gwen’s death—if not outright killing her himself—had caused Saxon to lose a single wink of sleep. James might’ve likened himself to a scalpel—carefully in and out with precision, leaving the surroundings undamaged. Saxon was a shotgun, and Lord forbid he get aimed at anyone who might cross him.

James glanced at Jack and realized he was crying. He scooted his own stool closer, and rested a hand on Jack’s shoulder. When Jack couldn’t rid himself of his problems through sex, casual touch seemed to be an acceptable placeholder. James harboured no illusions that as soon as he could get his feet beneath him, Jack would be out of James’ flat like a shot aimed at the nearest bar to pull the first attractive human-shaped thing that caught his eye.

“Donna Noble,” Jack said apropos of nothing, glaring into the now half-empty bottle.

“Who?”

“One of the best minds in the business. I need her.”

James frowned. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’m going to make Saxon regret what he did to them.”

James squeezed Jack’s shoulder that much tighter. He might’ve only known Gwen and Rhys in passing, but that didn’t mean he was going to let this slide. No thief with a smidgen of honour would.

“I’m in,” James said.

“Can’t ask you to do that,” Jack muttered.

“Can’t let the likes of Saxon run rampant. I might be next,” James pointed out. Had probably escaped being ‘next’ by the narrowest of margins, really. “Besides, we’re friends. Your fight is my fight, and all that.”

Jack put his hand atop James’, the ghost of a smile flitting briefly across his lips. “You say things like that, and then wonder why I was in love with you for the better part of a decade.”

“Stop,” James said, momentarily embarrassed at how terribly fond he sounded.

“Tomorrow,” Jack said. He pulled himself up off his chair—the only rickety one at James’ kitchen bar, and therefore Jack’s favourite for perverse reasons he’d never shared.

He didn’t tell James where he was going, and James never asked. Hopefully, whoever he found to keep him company would distract him enough to keep him from doing anything stupid on his own.

* * *

Donna’s contact—James’ would-be partner—was supposed to be waiting for him when he arrived at Ianto’s place a little after one in the afternoon. He didn’t know what to look for beyond Jack’s hastily described ‘blonde,’ tossed over his shoulder on his way out the door to meet with Donna.

(“And why can’t you and Donna introduce us properly?” James had demanded. Jack had been near-constantly on the phone with her since he’d turned up at James’ the morning after discovering Gwen was dead, the two of them talking a million miles a minute at each other. James could only hear one side of the conversation, and that was all he needed to know there was another mind out there similar to Jack’s. The propspect was terrifying. 

“Because neutrality is important when meeting a potential partner,” Jack replied. “If Donna and I show up, you’ll be relying on our impressions instead of your own.”

“That is the greatest load of codswallop I’ve ever heard.”

Jack shrugged, but offered no apologies. Feral child, he was. Raised completely without manners. James abhorred him.)

Ianto Jones, owner of _Bespoke Coffee_ , a high-end coffee bar tucked into the recesses of Clerkenwell, had graciously agreed to allow James to use it as a meeting place. It was practically impossible to find without the help of someone in the know. The signage was non-existent—a small placard placed in the lower left-hand side of the shoppe windows—and nothing drew the eye to it. When he entered, the smell of fresh-ground beans accosted his senses, and drew his eyes to the menu boards behind the front counter. The interior managed all at once to be both intimidating and welcoming, much like its proprietor. James had only met Ianto once, when he’d arrived too early to Jack’s flat one morning and met Ianto on his way out. He’d never gotten a definitive answer on the relationship between them, though Jack seemed somehow softer when he suggested Ianto’s place as a venue.

The inside was sparse; a few small tables and chairs settled into the odd corner, with a long bar stretching along the windows to provide some additional seating. Despite the intimidation factor which, even knowing what little he did of Ianto, James knew must be deliberate, the place was crowded. Every stool at the bar was taken up, and a group of self-congratulating-looking hipsters had shoved several of the tables together in the middle of the room.

A small display case next to the till hosted an assortment of decadent-looking desserts and pastries, all sourced from a local bakery according the note seated atop it. Ianto himself stood alone behind the counter, and nodded gravely to James when he entered. James wondered, briefly, how comfortable it could possibly be to pull duty as a barista when dressed in a full suit, but if he felt any degree of discomfort, it didn't shine through his perfectly put-together mien.

“Jack told me to expect you,” he said, unsmiling. “I don’t believe the other member of your party is here yet.”

James’ mouth twitched into a frown. He’d arrived exactly on time—even circling the block once to make sure he was neither early nor late—and found himself irked that his would-be partner couldn’t repay the courtesy.

“Suppose I’ll wait, then.” He peered at the signs behind the counter. “I’ll have a matcha tea, please.”

“Very good.” Ianto waved to the lone open table near the back of the shoppe. “Have a seat, I’ll bring it to you once it’s ready.”

“Ta.”

James seated himself at the table, and fixed his eyes on the door. Blonde. What did ‘blonde’ even mean? There were countless shades of blonde. Was it a bloke? Ugh, hopefully not some horrible twat named ‘Clive’ or the like. If James was going to work with a partner—not completely unheard of, though it’d been ages since he’d trusted anyone the way he trusted Jack—he’d have to be the respectable sort of thief, who understood _why_ they were looking to avenge themselves on Harold Saxon, and be willing to forgo any potential score.

Jack trusted Donna’s judgement; James supposed he could do the same. For now.

Ianto was settling a cup on the table before him when the door swung open again, flooding the shoppe with a frigid breeze and a spattering of the rain which had been threatening to fall all afternoon.

James’ eyes widened. It was her. The woman from Lady Amierhemet’s party. Even without the gown and trappings of wealth, she was lovely. Her simple style carried over into denim, a red jacket and white blouse, but it was impossible to deny that she was beautiful.

“Pardon me,” Ianto said, excusing himself from James’ table and returning the to till.

She hadn’t noticed James, situated in the back corner as he was, and instead focused on the menu boards, tongue poking out into the corner of her mouth distractingly and _bloody sodding hell was she his contact?_.

She was, wasn’t she?

James didn’t believe in coincidence.

(Not that he’d be completely devastated if he was wrong).

He popped up, his chair screeching across the ceramic tile flooring and drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the room. Her attention swung around to him, and she blinked as recognition dawned.

She hurried through an order—Ianto nonplussed at her utter distraction—and then crossed the café to join him.

“Are you…” She paused and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Waiting for someone?”

Yes. For her. All his life. He promptly wanted to smack himself upside the head for such disgustingly soppiness. “I am.”

“Oh.” She bit her lower lip. “Would that someone happen to have a friend named ‘Donna’?”

His heart tripped over itself, as though beating out a double rhythm. “You were the one who took the Amierhemet collection!”

Her mouth turned up in an expansive smirk. “You might’ve found it, if you’d asked me for that waltz.”

James felt the tips of his ears heat up, but couldn’t help what was likely a besotted grin from stretching out across his own face. “That was brilliant. I couldn’t tell they were fakes.”

“Ah, well, can’t take the credit for that, can I? I’ve a friend who does gorgeous work at forgeries.” She glanced at the table and took the empty seat across from James’. He dropped into his chair, attention still fixed wholly on his new companion. “Thought I’d have more time to slip out, though. Suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“Believe me, I regretted it almost immediately.”

She laughed and held out a hand. “Rose.”

Her skin was warm, despite the chilly air outside. “James December.”

Her smirk turned speculative. “Your name is really James December?”

“Well.” He shrugged, and quieted when Ianto approached the table and placed a fussy-looking latte something in front of Rose. He tried, and failed, not to be too put out to see the heart expertly drawn in the foam.

She took a sip and sighed in such pure satisfaction that James found himself shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Lovely."

"Yes," he said, strangled. He coughed through it and took a sip of his tea. It was perfectly brewed, of course. He wouldn't expect anything else from a man as meticulous as Ianto Jones.

Silence descended, slightly awkward as they regarded each other. Rose looked full young for the reputation Donna suggested. Early twenties, if he was being generous. James had probably been in the game since she'd been in primary. But, on the other hand, she'd managed to get her hands on the Amerihemet jewels without drawing any attention, and had switched it with a good enough fake to fool both himself and Jack.

"What would you say was your biggest score?" James asked.

"Is this a job interview?"

"Might be."

Rose looked decidedly unimpressed, but huffed out a breath. "Fine. I'd say the Swollen Tiger of Gibraltar."

James' eyes widened. "That was never you."

Rose scowled. "Don't think I'm good enough?"

"That's not it at all!" James protested, his smile returning full force. "I was there! After! You beat me to it."

"Did I?" Rose asked, tucking her tongue into her smile before taking another sip of her coffee. "Well. Maybe I should be the one interviewing you, then."

A sneaking suspicion began tugging at the back of James' thoughts. "You wouldn’t also happen to be responsible for nicking a sapphire necklace from Pollard’s?"

"Might've been."

"Fantastic!"

A slow blush spread across her cheeks and she buried the expression in her coffee, taking a deliberately long sip. The effusive enjoyment James felt finding her, after spending so long admiring the anonymous thief who'd beaten him to more than one score, suddenly drained away when he remembered why he'd asked.

"Do you know anything about Harold Saxon?"

All amusement mutually fled, Rose inclined her head. "Donna's told me. And I've heard from... others what he's like. I'm sorry about your mates."

"A bunch of us ponied up for Rhys' legal defence. Hopefully he won't spend much time in the bin." James sighed. "Isn't enough, though, is it?"

"Never is," Rose agreed. "'m dad died on the job, too."

Desperate to get away from the sticky feelings pooling in his chest, James flapped his hands about. "Anyway, Saxon's the worst sort of thief. Not a proper villain, like the rest of us. Not a scrap of humanity of honour anywhere about him. You should know that, going in. If he finds out we're the ones who crossed him."

Rose settled back in her seat, a thoughtful tilt to her brow. "Then we either make sure he doesn't find out, or find a way to get rid of him for good."

"I'm not a killer," James stated, flat and unyielding.

"Me either. Not quite what I had in mind."

"What, you already have a plan?"

"You suggesting you don't?"

James' smile slowly returned. “Tell me.” 

“I looked him up. Saxon’s got a reputation, don’t he? Keeps more than half of what he steals. He’s got to keep it somewhere. I say we find it and strip him of everything.” 

James’ smile widened. “Or how’s this: I know what his next job is going to be. We beat him to it.” 

Rose sipped her latte, brow pulling in thought. Suddenly, the sun seemed to rise behind her eyes. 

“What if we do both?”

“Both,” James breathed. “Did I say you were brilliant?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Let me correct the mistake. Rose, you are absolutely brilliant.” He leaned forward. “We need to play this carefully. If we take everything from Saxon he’s going to come after us. He’s an excellent thief, but a ruthless man.”

Rose’s eyes gleamed. “Tell me more.” 

“Saxon is a man of habits…”

* * *

Habits, yes. Dangerous in their profession, perhaps, but he seemed the type of bloke who thought himself far and away better than the rest of the world, and Rose doubted for a moment that he considered his habits to be a liability.

Every evening he was in London, he dropped in at Claridge’s Bar. Jack had watched him from afar, tracking his movements, confirming his patterns. What the American wanted to do with the information was played rather closer to his chest. Frustrating, definitely, but she supposed she understood. Jack knew Donna and James, but Rose was a new element. One he wasn't sure he could trust. Rose imagined that James, who seemed to have flung himself into their budding friendship with wild abandon, was as annoyed by it as Rose was herself.

That evening was the first test of their slow-to-win trust.

She'd seated herself near the bar; just far away enough to be visible from Saxon's usual table, but not front and centre enough to seem as though she was trying to draw attention. Not that she needed to try. The provocative height of her skirt, matched with the incredible height of her heels, was doing all that for her.

" _He's pulled up to valet_ ," Jack whispered in her ear.

" _You can speak normally_ ," Donna informed him. " _You're not going to deafen her_."

" _I'm not used to these wireless earpieces_ ," Jack admitted.

" _We need to invest in a couple_ ," James insisted. " _They're_ brilliant."

Rose raised her hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Would you all please shut up? You're too distracting."

With a smattering of irritated murmurs, they finally quieted, just in time for Saxon to walk through the door.

There was a brief chaos of activity before Donna, the sole voice Rose didn't mind nattering in her ear, began to speak. " _If he sticks to his usual routine, he'll head to the table two across and three back from where you're sitting. He'll have a clear line of sight on your legs. He's a leg man._ "

" _Hence the skirt!_ " Jack shouted from wherever Donna had shuffled him off, just loud enough to be heard over the general din of the bar.

Rose crossed her legs at the ankle and sipped her martini. This was routine surveillance. Confirming what Jack had gathered secondhand about Saxon's day-to-day activities. Rose was the only one of them he'd never met, and drawing his attention away from her face was the primary goal of the venture, hence the diabolically short skirt and heels she wouldn't have a hope in hell of running with if things went sideways.

(On the other hand, the spiked stilettos were a weapon all on their own).

She could tell the second Saxon noticed her, the feeling of his eyes crawling across her skin like a fly that'd dropped onto her shoulder. She sipped her cocktail again, keeping her gaze directed towards the impressive display of liquor at the bar. Like all Saxon's favourite haunts, the place was posh, well-stocked and crowded with rich marks aching to be played for a short con. He rarely walked out with less money than he entered with.

Rose blinked in surprise when Saxon seated himself at her table.

"Aren't you the frilly pink cupcake," he said, an obsequious smirk plastered across his face.

"Do I know you?" Rose asked smoothly.

"Probably by reputation." Saxon leaned forward. "Harold Saxon. And you... you're Jackie Tyler's girl."

" _She's what?!_ " James and Jack demanded at the same time. 

Rose managed not to wince at the high-pitched shriek in her ear, but it was a close thing. Everything went conspicuously silent following the brief outburst. Rose had been on the receiving end of 'conspicuously silent' numerous times. It usually involved a smack to the back of her head.

"I am," she nodded. "Rose."

She held out a hand, which Saxon cupped in between his own, pulling it towards him to place a kiss on her knuckles. It might've been charming, if she didn't know about the wolf beneath the wool suit. How many marks had he charmed the same way?

"Rose," he repeated, as though tasting the word on the tip of his tongue. "I'd heard Jackie and Pete had a child. Pity about your father. I'd say he was one of the greats, but the greats don't let themselves get crushed in closing vault doors, do they?"

"No, I don't suppose they do," Rose agreed, her face carefully neutral despite the sudden boiling anger brewing in her gut.

Saxon hummed out a pleased little sound, as though happy to have stumbled across an artery. As though it hadn't been a deliberate strike. "I'm an enormous fan of your mother's, on the other hand. Jackie Tyler. I could've written a thesis on her 1997 heist of the Israel Diamond Exchange."

"She'd be flattered." That, at least, she could be honest about. Mum wasn't the most humble person when it came to her accomplishments.

Saxon's eyebrow tilted upwards. "Where is she hiding out now?"

"She's retired. Not hiding." Jackie had quit the game immediately upon realizing she was up the duff.

"Same thing, in our field. Good thieves never really retire."

Rose smiled. "She wasn't a good thief. She was a master thief."

"Oh, little girl, I think you'll find I'm the only master." A waitress dropped a glass with three fingers of scotch over ice at the table, and Saxon tipped it her way. Rose returned the would-be salute with a tilt of her own cocktail, matching Saxon's long pull.

He set his scotch down and eyed her speculatively. "Strange you should show up at my bar."

Rose smiled. "Not strange if I was looking for you."

" _WHAT?_ " James yelled.

" _Let her work!_ " Donna screeched.

Rose sighed, and pulled the ear piece out. Saxon looked on, completely unsurprised as she dropped it into her martini. She’d seen his eyes note it the second he'd taken his seat.

Rose leaned forward, her blouse pulling back tightly across her chest. "Let's talk."

* * *

Rose arrived back at her flat an agonizing five hours after she'd left them there to wait, and James wasn't ashamed to admit he'd spent the whole time pacing.

Donna had long since passed out on Rose's couch, and Jack was sacked out in the neighbouring recliner he'd claimed as his own the moment he'd entered the flat. It was just James waiting for her. Just James and all the pent up, impotent inadequacy he'd felt since she'd volunteered to meet Saxon on her own and walked out the door to meet him.

("What was she thinking, taking out her earpiece?" he had demanded. "Did he noticed it?" If he had, Rose could be in a world of trouble. 

"Is she hiding something?" Jack asked by route, passion drained from his voice after having repeated the words eighteen times.

"Is she hiding something?" James repeated.

"You're both idiots," Donna informed them, also for the eighteenth time. She didn't even have the good grace to look up from her magazine. "Trust her to do her job.")

Rose was wobbling on her farcical forty centimetre heels, squiffy and giggling and leaning against the wall as she tried not to topple out of one while unstrapping herself from the other.

He didn't quite bound over to her, but there was a certain bounding quality to his movements that must've been obvious as she looked up.

"That place makes a blinding negroni," she told him, finally managing to unstrap her shoe. She toppled sideways, and it was only years of honing quick reflexes that allowed James to catch her before she smacked her head on the nearby wall.

"Are you pissed?" he demanded.

"I spent four hours in his company. Do you think I could've done it sober?" She pulled away and hopped about until she managed to get her other shoe off. "Fuck, but I'm knackered." She wandered towards the kitchen, James close at her heels.

There was a lot he wanted to say, but what inevitably spilled out of his mouth was, "Jackie Tyler."

Rose's shoulders stiffened, even as her hand wrapped around an old takeaway box. "Yeah."

" _The_ Jackie Tyler."

"Lord forbid there be more than one," Rose muttered, fishing out a piece of chicken and popping it in her mouth.

James shook his head, grinning ear-to-ear with wide-eyed disbelief. "This is sensational. I, me, myself, am running game with the daughter of Jackie Bloody Tyler."

"Look." Rose slammed the container down on the nearby counter-top. "I don't tell people because it's none of their bloody business. Yes, my mother is Jackie Tyler. She didn't train me. She actually tried to forbid me from getting into this. But I'm here. I learned it all on my own. And I don't appreciate being constantly compared to her."

James threw up his hands. "All right! I'm just... it's astonishing!”

Rose let out a wordless groan of annoyance and stormed out of the kitchen, past the sitting room, to her small balcony. The slamming of the screen door jolted Donna awake and she struggled to sit up on the overly-squishy Chesterfield. 

“Wha—” Her head swivelled back and forth between where James was standing dumbstruck in the kitchen door to Rose’s silhouetted form on the balcony. She sighed. “Tell me you didn’t go ahead and bring up her mum.” 

“Well.” James shuffled his feet. “I mean. Jackie Tyler.” 

Donna groaned and finally managed to lever herself up. “Tosser,” she muttered. 

She started for the balcony door, and James barely managed to beat her there. 

“Can I?” 

“I don’t know, sunshine, _can you_?” Donna asked. James blinked in confusion and Donna rolled her eyes. “The number of times I’ve had to have this conversation with her, I should be charging hourly. Rose ain’t some cheap knock off, all right?”

“I never said that!” 

“Well, then, you’d be the first to bring up her mum and not say it.” Donna’s lips twitched in a sneer. Not directed at James, though, he didn’t think. At everyone else who’d maybe decided Rose wasn’t worthwhile as anything else than an accessory or sequel. 

“I understand about family,” he offered. 

Donna glowered, but released the door. “Don’t faff this up.” 

James shrugged. “I’ll do my best.” 

Rose refused to turn around when James slinked out of the flat, leaving Donna to return to the couch. She’d noticed their furious whispers, probably debating which one of them was going to dare join her and talk her down from whatever tantrum they imagined she was having. 

James won, apparently. He stepped out to join her. 

“I got excited.”

“Yeah, well. Not much excitement in me on my own, is there?” 

“You’re joking. Rose Tyler…” He paused. “It is Rose Tyler, isn’t it?” Rose nodded and rolled her eyes. “Rose Tyler, it wasn’t your mum who beat me to Pollard’s. Or the Swollen Tiger. That was all you. And possibly a little Donna, but I’ll admit she’s a fair hand, so I can’t blame you for working with her.” 

Rose managed a small smile, but kept her eyes fixed on the dreary sky above them. 

James tapped his foot. “I think you can guess that ‘December’ isn’t really my last name.” 

“It does seem a bit theatrical.” 

“Exactly! Here’s what’s what. I have nine older brothers.” 

Rose finally glanced his way. “Nine.” 

James nodded. “Eleven of us in total, because my mum was so eager for a girl. Probably would’ve made it all the way to twenty if she’d had her way, before my father put his foot down. Quite the opposite problem of Henry VIII, really. Anyway, my oldest brother is a full twenty years my senior. And when I was born, he’d given up trying to get along with any of us. Called us all by number. In Latin.” 

“What a ponce,” Rose giggled.

James nodded. “That’s only the beginning. I got so used to being called ‘Decimus’ that when I struck out on my own, I couldn’t think of anything better. Point is, Rose, I know a fair bit about feeling second best. Honestly, I’ve felt tenth best all my life. And I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” 

He leaned against the railing next to her, and she hesitantly covered his hand with her own. Rose glanced at his sideways and turned her hand, tucking her hand into his own. 

“Of course, I find out you were the one who nicked the Star of the Marchioness, and we’ll have words,” Rose told him. 

James coughed. “Well.” 

“Oh my god.”

* * *

When James had said he knew Saxon’s next mark, Rose hadn’t counted on Saxon’s plan being as ridiculous as it was ambitious. Sotheby’s was hosting a substantial private lot of gems and jewels from a member of the Scottish nobility who preferred to remain anonymous. The collection was impressive: dozens of pieces that had been well cared for over the years, all finely crafted by some of the foremost designers of the early twentieth century.

All dross, as far as Saxon was concerned; his target was the Majestic Blue. Rose stared at its picture on the online catalogue, trying not to let drool pool in her mouth. Over two hundred diamonds, almost fifty carats, all Fancy Blue and lovingly arranged on a single bracelet. The auctioneer wouldn’t even provide an estimate for it. But if Rose knew diamonds, which she fancied she did a bit, the family wouldn’t have put it up if it went for less than twenty million pounds. Even broken up, the brilliant cut gems would be worth scads of money. And unless this was one of those pieces Saxon decided he liked the look of and wanted for his own, he probably already had a buyer lined up.

Rose had never dealt with an auction house before. Security tended to be tighter in them than the Louvre, especially when dealing with such extensive collections.

“He’s got a standard MO from job to job,” Donna mused, “He’ll figure out how Sotheby’s is planning to transport it and find a way to pick it off en route to the auction house.” Sotheby’s had a standardized process for private lot sales; they’d bring everything from the family to their assessors before transferring it to auction house. Two points where Saxon could try to get his hands on it.

Unless. “If it’s already there?”

“Then there’s not a chance in hell he’s going to get the bracelet out,” Donna mused. “Not unless he pays for it.”

“That’s a thought,” Rose replied absently, already trying to figure out how she’d be able to nick it before Saxon had the chance. “I could get Martha to work on creating a copy, but I want him to know he’s failed the moment he goes to take it. Not saunter off with a convincing copy and find out later.” Rose tapped her fingernail against her teeth. “Let me think on it a bit.”

“Whatever you say,” Donna said. She pecked Rose’s temple and stood. Donna was generally more hands on when it came to helping Rose with her jobs, but between her commitments to Jack and James, and training up her new ingenue, she’d been stretched thin. Not that Rose was at all put out; Donna was an excellent sounding board, and a wonderful partner in crime, but they’d fallen into their relationship well after Rose had already established herself. The jobs were bigger, true. More ambitious, some (her mum) might say. But Rose was capable of planning her own heists.

Good thing, too.

“How are the boys doing on their end?” Rose asked as Donna shouldered her purse.

“So-so,” Donna said, tilting her hand back and forth. “James doesn’t have any experience with Davies Security Systems. I’ve been trying to get my hands on schematics for him to take a gander and figure out the best way in.”

"You sure that's what Saxon's using?"

"Fair bet... We found a record of one of his aliases in the Davies customer database. No address. Privately purchased and installed."

Rose hummed under her breath. “Bill might have a copy. You should give her a yell.”

Donna snapped her fingers and blew Rose a kiss on the way out, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the open online catalogue for the upcoming auction. She clicked through it absently, automatically assigning values her fence might pay for the pieces, well under the Sotheby’s estimates.

She kept coming back to the Majestic Blue. That many diamonds… there had to be a record of sale somewhere. Maybe the best way to go about it wasn’t to get it from Sotheby’s at all.

She had two weeks until the sale. Assuming Sotheby’s hadn’t picked it up yet—a safe bet, since Saxon hadn’t made any attempts to leave town—it gave her a very limited window.

Rose scooped up her bag and made her way out the door. There were archives she could check for records of sale to old nobility.

And while she was out she could grab some more Lady Grey.

* * *

“All right,” Bill Potts said, glaring at James-the-Git. Honestly. Man’d nicked a few pretty rocks then decided he was God’s gift to the game. “Let’s go through this again: you’re comparing a private house to a museum or the like. It’s not the same. The Davies System isn’t going to have all the same bells and whistles as corporate security. Your Harold Saxon won’t be able to use some of the upgraded features. Asset tags wouldn’t work on stolen property because he’d had to fess up to the monitoring company what the tags are protectin’, so unless his place is filled with art he actually bought instead of stole—”

“Not bloody likely,” James muttered.

“Then you’re not going to have to worry about it, right? What you’re going to have to worry about is CCTV monitoring getting your bloody face all over his system and him tracking you down.” She poked a finger at the schematics laid out on the table between them. “You need to figure out where the cameras are and either disable them or keep your back to them so he doesn’t know you’re the one who robbed him blind, yeah?”

“And I can’t just find someone to hack into the system?”

Bill shook her head. “Davies only does analogue systems for exactly that reason. They’re old school.”

James glowered, though Bill privately decided it was more out of irritation at the situation than at her personally. Better’ve been, anyway. She’d cried off a date for this, and Penny didn’t strike her as the forgiving sort. “So, I should see if I can get hands on the blueprints for his home?”

“Wouldn’t hurt. Seeing the angles’d give you a decent idea of where the cameras might be located. And could make a better guess if he’s hidden a wall safe somewhere.” She leaned forward. “But that’s only the first thing to worry about. Davies Systems are tricky. Known for lots of little loopholes and customized shite. You could get in there and find that half of everything is electrified.”

“Well that’s just brilliant.” His brow drew. “What if we cut power? Think that could work?”

“Might do. As long as he hasn’t got a back-up generator on the property. Then again, you could find it and knock it out, too.”

“I think that may be our best bet.” He stood and offered his hand. “Thank you so much, Bill. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Maybe not such a git, then. “Nah, you’d’ve figured it out. Just need to get your head out of corporate and into private.” They shook, and Bill’s lips quirked up. “Good luck.”

“Ta.”

Bill left in a swish of cool wind, walking past a handful of tourist-looking individuals huddled outside Ianto’s locked doors. The man himself, the only person besides James left now in _Bespoke_ , seemed content to ignore them. He ignored them even harder when one of them knocked on the window, focusing on what appeared to be checking over his receipts for the day.

“Might help if you posted your hours,” James suggested.

“I keep a tight schedule. They’re welcome to decipher it on their own.”

When one of them knocked again, Ianto stepped around the bar to flick off the lights.

“Do you mind?” James asked. The sole light cast by the pastry case was hardly enough to review the plans Bill had so helpfully provided.

“Oh, I apologize. I didn’t realize that my consistent opening hours were interfering with the crimes being planned at my backmost table.”

James pulled out his cellphone and turned on the flashlight. “I’ll manage.”

“I imagine you will.”

There was another knock. Ianto’s long-suffering sigh practically shook James’ bones.

Saxon owned nearly as many boltholes as James, flung across London in no decipherable pattern. If James hadn’t known the man better, he’d expect that the most expensive of them all—a ludicrously posh maisonette off Bedford Gardens—was his main residence.

But James did know Saxon, didn’t he? Knew him well enough to still be scarred by their shared past, back when James hadn’t understood that his vocation was one he could enjoy without harming innocent people along the way. Saxon would love the grandeur of the place, and the status that came with being part of such a posh neighbourhood. But deep down it wouldn’t have appealed. Too shiny. Too clean. Not enough blood soaked into the walls and woodwork to really attract him.

No. If anything, he’d keep it to enjoy all the appearance of civility. The beast that lived behind his ribcage would want something more feral. That left the property in the seediest corner of the city; a neighbourhood glossed over on highlights and discussions of London, mostly forgotten save by the people forced to live there.

James had been forced, once upon a time. Shortly after he’d left home to strike out on his own. It was how he’d met Saxon in the first place; just a couple of young men struggling to make their way in the world. He wasn’t even sure Jack had an idea about how close they’d been. And he never needed to. It was a punch to the gut, realizing that Saxon had never left the dingy hole in the wall they’d claimed as their own. To think he might’ve bought it outright instead of squatting in it, and then using it to store the bloody prizes gleaned from his career of violence. And yet it gave him an advantage, didn’t it? Because Saxon might be using a Davies security system, but James knew the layout well enough that he could practically envision where the cameras would be placed.

He’d rather hoped never to have to go back there again.

Ianto appeared at his elbow to draw him out of his ruminations. The tourists must’ve gotten the message and buggered off, because they’d stopped lurking outside the door.

“Stop serving such wonderful coffee and you won’t be inconvenienced by potential patrons,” James suggested, lolling his head back to eye the other man.

“Remarkable idea for a business plan,” Ianto replied, deadpan. “Are you done?”

“Kicking me out?”

“If I may.”

“So polite.” James bundled up the specs Bill had so helpfully provided and stuck them in his messenger bag. “I do appreciate it, Ianto.”

“Well.” Ianto shifted awkwardly. Unaccustomed to gratitude, perhaps. James’d have to give Jack a nudge about that. “You’re tidy, at least.”

Ianto Jones definitely struck him as a man who appreciated tidiness. Wonder of all wonders he’d ever been involved with Jack Harkness.

James struck out into the night, passing by the small knot of tourists now frantically huddled around a single smartphone and muttering about coffee. The streets of London pressed in around him, scents of petrichor and petrol radiating from the pavement. His feet carried him away from _Bespoke_ , through a tangled knot of neighbourhoods until he found himself outside of Rose’s building.

Her light was on.

James debated with himself, standing on the sidewalk amidst passers-by looking to escape the trickle of rain beginning to drizzle down. He shouldn’t be here. Rose had her own planning to do—trickier than his, he could admit, save for the potential of being caught out by Saxon while he was actively pulling things off the other man’s walls—and yet.

He liked Rose.

Rose…

And she…

Rose was…

He liked Rose.

James wasn’t Jack. James didn’t go in for domestics—or so he’d told himself a thousand times. Maybe a throwback to when he’d stumbled into a relationship that’d ended in utter tragedy. Since then he’d had a strict policy of light flirtation and nothing more.

Rose made him want more.

He stood frozen in indecision long enough to boil a kettle and make a pot of tea. Or so he assumed, given that Rose stepped out the door of her building, eventually, two steaming cups in hand.

“Is the pavement especially comfy, or did you plan to come up?” she asked gently. 

She held out one of the cups. It burned against his fingertips, searing his wind-chilled skin, but smelled of subtle bergamot and lemon. It was good. Grounding. And James decidedly not blush. He was not a blusher. Blushing was strictly outside of his oeuvre. He might’ve flushed a little, but only because the wind was picking up.

"I... came to ask how your plans were going. Very thorough, me. Especially when working with a partner."

 _You're so delightfully thorough_ , James, a ghost whispered in the back of his mind. He brushed it aside. The living being was taking up enough of his thoughts that the ghost could stay silent awhile.

Rose's smile dimmed. "Don't trust me?"

"No! No, no, no, no. Not at all. I'm. No."

"You sure you’ve said ‘no’ enough to make your point?" she asked, her playful grin returning. 

He was saved the embarrassment of answering when a sudden gust blew a soggy leaf against his exposed neck and he let out a terribly manly and not at all mortifying shriek. Thank goodness that embarrassment superseded the other one.

"Better come in," Rose laughed.

"It's getting dangerous out here," James agreed. He followed her back into the building.

Rose's flat was stylish and humble all at once; decorated by someone who'd probably grown up under the care of parents who wanted to keep a low profile. He’d paced across it enough times to know it in his sleep, now. She took his jacket and bundled it up into her closet, and muttered something about going to grab him a towel while waving him towards the comfortable-looking armchair in her reception room. It faced an expansive black fireplace, a flat screen telly mounted above, already cheerily burning away and warming the entire flat.

And on the mantle, a picture of a man and woman who must've been the Tylers themselves. He hadn’t noticed it, when he’d been here the first time. Maybe too concerned about Rose crossing paths with Saxon. 

He hopped back up out of the chair to look, hissing when hot tea splashed across his hand. Jackie and Pete Tyler did not look like the sort of people who were responsible for hundreds of millions in gems and gold bouillon going missing from a Swiss vault in 1984. Rose wouldn't even have been born yet, he thought.

They looked happy.

"That was before the heist," Rose told him. He turned and barely managed to catch the towel she tossed his way with his free hand. "They lived on a council estate, did you know? Met at a chippy. Ran a bunch of short cons together before they started planning their first big job together. Got good at it. Real good." She joined him at the fireplace. "Mom retired when they had me, but Dad wanted to keep going. His retirement fund, he called it. And then one day he just never came home."

"I'm sorry," James whispered.

"Me too." Rose's mouth turned up in a bare smile. "Mum refused to train me up, you know? Told me all these amazin' stories of her and Dad, but then never followed through. I had to figure things out on m'own."

"I'd say you did rather brilliantly for yourself," James said. Rose shook her head, smiling, and he persisted, "You know, I've never met a thief like you before."

"What, second generation? Hand me down talent?"

"As good as me."

Rose snorts. "Not very humble, are we?"

"No, really. I've been giving it a think. Lady Amierhamet's jewels? That forgery was brilliant."

"M'friend Martha. She's one of the world class greats at forgery."

"You see, I'd never have done it. In and out quick, that's my game. Doesn't matter if they figure out what I've done seconds later, as long as I'm gone before they find me. But you. You're one of a kind, Rose Tyler. Who cares if you come by your talents naturally. They still exist." He offered her a gentle smile of his own. "Know what I thought when I opened the safe at Pollard’s, and I saw it was empty?"

"What?"

"Finally. Finally, there's someone out there on my level."

"You know Donna helps me with half my plans."

James leaned over. "It's the other half I'm interested in." He sat down beside her. "Rose Tyler, if we don't stick together, you and I are still going to be two of the all time greats. Together? We'll _be_ the all-time greats."

"Better with two, is that it?"

"That's exactly it. As long as it's the two of us." He leaned against her. Rose steadied herself, but pushed back against him amiably.

"James," Rose murmured.

"Yeah?"

"There's something I should..." She paused when her phone buzzed. "'Scuse me."

James caught a flash of a familiar number on her phone and she swept out of the room, answering in a low voice. His gut churned unpleasantly and he placed his mostly-full tea cup down on the mantle.

Had it been a mistake coming here?

Rose returned a few minutes later, slightly paler, and barely managed to muster up a half-smile. "You should probably go."

"Yeah."

He trailed her back to her door, pausing only to collect his coat.

"I'll see you soon?" he asked.

"Probably shouldn't," Rose replied. "Not 'til after the job's done, at least."

"’Til then, I guess."

She was on the topmost floor of three, and he shuffled his way down the stairs, slower than he could remember being in a while.

After the job was done.

Then.

Maybe.

* * *

The Sotheby's van arrived at the estate of the Baronet Agnew-Suttie at half-past four in the afternoon, and moved everything over from the family's vault to the secured lock boxes in the back of the van. They left shortly after six, and traveled to Edinburgh where the contents were transferred onto a train bound for London.

Harold boarded the train, along with a handful of other passengers, at eight.

By nine o'clock, he was letting himself into the car holding all the Sotheby's acquisitions, the guards unconscious—or dead, not that he cared—on the floor behind him, their inventory list in his hands.

"Picture yourself on a train in a station," he chuckled, scanning the list. He clenched his fist at his side and then shook loose the tension. Didn't bear dwelling on, did it?

There. He turned around and pulled out his picks. Shame that Sotheby's used the same locks as most banks did on safety deposit boxes. Tensioning the levers and bouncing them in was the work of a minute and he smiled as the tongue retracted. The slot slid open, revealing an elegant red velvet box.

He breathed out with a smile and opened it, relishing the creaky snap of the hinges as he exposed the contents.

What should have been the contents.

He stared. Huffed out a breath. Huffed out another. Loosed a chuckle of disbelief.

He was laughing outright when he spun on his heel and tossed the empty box across the train car. It bounced off the window and clattered to the floor, and he stepped on it with a snarl as he passed back out the door towards the passenger cars. He pulled off his balaclava and tossed it in the garbage outside the gents toilets. Pocketed his gloves. Removed his coat and tucked it over his arm. By the time he reached the dining car, he looked like any other passenger: deeply annoyed by the small irritants of the day.

Small irritants such as being beaten to twenty million pounds’ worth of diamonds. It couldn't have happened on the train; he'd been watching the Sotheby's car too closely. Nor at the estate prior to the pick up, when he knew Sotheby's would have verified the contents before locking them away. That left the transfer from the van to the train car. Damn. He'd been poncing about with the other passengers while his bracelet was being lifted by undeserving hands.

He didn't hit the table. It would be unseemly. But it was close.

"Scotch," he growled at the waitress as she passed by his table.

She scurried off without taking a food order. Wasn't as though he was going to tip anyway.

His phone buzzed an he yanked it out of his pocket, staring in disbelief at the notification that one of the motion sensors in his house was going off. He typed in his passcode, and his face twisted in disbelief at the sight of someone he knew oh so very well picking his art off his walls.

He checked his other system and shook his head in disbelief when nothing came up. He was still four bloody hours outside of London, his diamonds had been nicked, and James Fucking December was _robbing his bloody house_.

If James December wanted a war, Harold would give him a battle to be remembered.

* * *

"You know," James said, looking out over the Thames, "I'd always wondered where _Le pigeon aux petits pois_ had gotten to. I can't believe he had it hanging on his wall all these years."

Rose smiled. "You picked out a frame for it yet?"

"Wasn't ever an cubism fan. Cuuuubism. _Cu_ bism. Cu _bism_. Nah. Don't like it. Probably going to bin it."

"You can't bin an original Picasso."

"Pop it into some bloke's car at a boot sale, then. Make it their lucky day."

Rose chuckled and slid her hand into his. The Kingsland Basin really was lovely that evening, with the unexpectedly clear sky allowing for the meagrest glimpse of stars. She might've been happy staying with him forever.

"What's next for you?" she asked.

"I never know, do I? London mightn't be the best place for me for a while, so have to see where the wind takes me."

"Antwerp?" Rose suggested.

James smiled. "Could do." He raised their joint hands and pressed a kiss to their knuckles. "Care to join me?"

She smiled, tongue poking out the side of her mouth. "We'll see." She leaned up to kiss his cheek. "'night, James."

"Good night, Rose."

He watched her walk away, until she'd disappeared down a side street. Ducking his head and smiling to himself, James stuck his hands in his pockets and made his way back to his flat. All of Saxon's things had been stowed away inside. More than a few pieces of art. Jewels he'd found hidden away in a wall safe in the bedroom closet floor. One truly ostentatious jadeite peacock statuette that'd probably end up holding up the toilet roll in his second bathroom if it lasted that long. Things that Saxon had taken and kept, instead of fenced, for whatever reason. Probably to remind himself of how smart he was.

James reached his flat and let himself in with a sigh. 

The lights were off, when he'd sworn he'd left them on. Before he could so much as twitch towards the switch, something flew out of the darkness and slammed into the side of his head. James gagged on the sudden excruciating pain and staggered into the nearby wall, trying to keep himself up. Little use. His thoughts were swimming in a maelstrom of agony, and he couldn't keep his knees from buckling and sending him toppling into his umbrella stand.

"I really don't care for other people touching my things," Saxon whispered into the darkness around them.

James was dimly aware, over the pounding of his head, that Saxon was grabbing him under the arms. Dragging him away from the door.

He didn't pass out, but things were certainly getting fuzzy.

* * *

Harold wasn't a patient man, so it was a good thing that the expected knock on James' door came shortly after he had the man in question secured in one of his kitchen chairs. One of the high-backed, uncomfortable ones that had probably come with the flat pre-furnished.

James was slowly losing the stunned look of the recently pistol-whipped, and Harold couldn't contain a smile as he pulled the chair around to face the door.

"You'll love this, Jamie," he promised.

"Don' call me that," James slurred.

Harold patted his cheek and went to answer the door.

All he saw was blue. "It suits you better than pink," he said, eyeing up his bracelet, wrapped around a delicate wrist, hovering right next to a truly stunning pair of breasts.

"Ta," Rose said. She slipped in past him, her hips swaying, dress the same exquisitely daring length as the skirt she'd worn the night she'd sought him out to make her offer. "Is this it, then? Where he hid everything?"

"Oh, yes. All here. Your info was spot on." 

"Told you," she replied. 

"Rose," James whispered. Harold delighted in the anguished look crossing James' face as he began to comprehend Rose's betrayal.

She ignored him and went to the kitchen in search of a drink. She plucked an ice cube from the freezer and poured a generous glass of surprisingly magnificent scotch. Did James keep it on hand in memory of him? Harold never could resist a decent single malt.

"I like the work you did with my diamonds, too."

"My diamonds," Rose corrected, resting her glass against her cleavage. Harold watched with hungry eyes. James had coveted this woman. He'd watched them together at her flat. At the Basin. Having her would be just the proverbial icing on the cake. "That was the deal, wasn't it? I get the bracelet before you, you decide I'm good enough to work with?"

"Rose, no," James murmured, head lolling.

"Rose, yes," Harold contradicted. 

She smiled and offered him the scotch. He reached out for it, but paused. She'd been so upfront with him in the bar, sharing James' plans. Giving him up in order to partner with one of the greats. And Harold couldn't blame her. But was it all too convenient? 

"You first," he insisted.

Rose shrugged and knocked it back. This time, when she refilled it and offered it back to him, he took it gladly.

"Nice work switching it out before the train left, by the by. A little risky, but we can smooth out your performance as we go."

"Oh, I didn't swap it at the station."

Harold paused with the glass halfway to his mouth and lowered it. Out of habit, he swished the scotch around a bit, waiting for it to mix with the slow melting ice. "Then when?"

"At the estate."

"Rubbish. They would have noticed."

"They would have noticed if the box had been empty," Rose corrected. "The nice thing about Sotheby's is that they send the appraisers out in advance of pick up. The appraiser was there earlier in the day to make sure the diamonds were genuine. I was able to nab it between then and the pick up."

"They would've checked the box."

"They did. And got a lovely eyeful of a replica made of ice." She smiled. "I'm brilliant with ice."

"Why the fake at all? You had it!"

She leaned closer. "I wanted to get your attention."

Well. She certainly had it. He said as much and she grinned.

"Now, then. We'll just finish up with James, shall we? Then maybe dinner? Your treat, of course, given that you’ve got a fair bit of loose change sitting on your wrist."

"Of course," Rose demurred. She rounded Harold and came to stand before James. "Your poor head."

She reached up to touch the bloody mark and he jerked out of her touch. Harold chuckled and took a deep sip of scotch.

"Don't be too put out, Jamie. It would be a shame if the last thing on your mind before you left this world would be self-recrimination."

"You're going to kill me, then?" James murmured.

"Most assuredly. Slowly, too." Harold finished the scotch and deposited it at the kitchen bar. "Lesson number one, Rose. Always pay your debts."

He took a step forward, blinking when he swayed a bit in place. Perhaps he'd finished his drink somewhat quickly.

Rose smiled at him, an entirely different smile than he'd seen from her before. One that was simply...

He hit the ground.

Harold woke to the sound of a door being bashed open. He blinked, groaning as the stabbing pain of a hangover combined with the cotton-mouthed feel of sedative hit him all at once. He raised his hand to rub his eyes and blinked in surprise when he saw the Majestic Blue in his hand.

She'd drugged him, but left him the diamonds?

"Harold Saxon, this is Scotland Yard. You aren't to move."

His eyes widened, and he began to get his bearings. Still in James' flat. But his Picasso was mounted on the wall across from him, and from the corner of his eye he could see a few more of his trinkets collected nearby. A tidy stash.

He'd been had.

One of Her Majesty's investigators pulled him up out of his armchair, knocking over the glass that had been seated at his elbow.

He'd seen her drink it!

"The bracelet," another copper said, plucking it from his hand. "And we've got him on CCTV boarding the train."

Still trying to get his wits about him, Harold felt practically mute as they cuffed his wrists behind his back.

"Get the SOCOs down here. I want a full catalogue of all the contents of this flat."

He was half-dragged out the door. Down the hall. Outside to a waiting patrol car. And right before he was roughly shoved inside, he spotted James and Rose across the street, watching him.

He snarled, beastial, as the door closed on him.

* * *

"You know, I would’ve bottled out of giving him the hint about the ice," James said as the patrol car took off, Saxon glaring at them through the window.

"Wasn't really a hint," Rose disagreed. "He still thought I was talking about the diamonds."

"Pity about those," James sighed. "Twenty million pounds, back into the open market." His wistful frown slowly shifted to a grin. "Want to go steal them again?” His eyes widened, slightly manic. “Oooh, they'll probably tighten up security. It'll be even harder."

"No, James."

His smile faded. "Right, of course." He shook his head. "Of course. Stupid of me to think you might-"

"Stop," Rose commanded, swatting his arm. She reached into her bustier and pulled out the bracelet. "We could steal it again if you want, but it's not worth anything."

James' eyes widened. "You—?"

"With everything else we left in there—between your stuff and his—they don't really need the real thing to make a case against him. Assuming they even check, that is."

James crosses the short step separating them and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Rose Tyler, you are brilliant."

Rose offered him the barest hint of a smile before catching his mouth with her own. Her hand wound in his hair, pulling him closer until her palm inadvertently brushed the bruise Saxon had left on his temple. He winced in pain and she apologized against his mouth. 

“Come on,” she whispered, pulling back. “I think chips to celebrate.” 

“Well, all right. But you’ll have to pay, fair bit of change sitting on your wrist and all.” 

Rose batted his arm, kissed his cheek, and pulled him down the road.

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed Cyclops from _Hustle_. Fairly unapologetic about it, but I didn't think it merited including him in the character tags. 
> 
> All comments and kudos deeply and gratefully appreciated.


End file.
